


The Gilded Room

by Dayja



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-02
Updated: 2010-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:46:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayja/pseuds/Dayja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes wakes up in a strange room and the sense that something is very, very wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title: The Gilded Room
> 
> WARNING: the tone of this story is much, much darker than most of my other works. It contains GRAPHIC RAPE.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own/am not associated with/make no money from 'Sherlock Holmes'

**Chapter** **1  
**  
Sherlock awoke slowly with a vague, unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. He was in a bed, was his first observation, but he dismissed that as the reason behind the wrong feeling because he almost always awoke in a bed. Unless he fell asleep on the couch, or passed out on the floor, or had been injured and knocked unconscious but awoke again before anyone could either transfer him to a bed or kill him and thus negate the necessity of one. All of this went through his mind with the usual speed before he even opened his eyes.

When he did open his eyes, he discovered that the familiarity of waking up in a bed was slightly ruined by the fact that it was an unfamiliar bed. The entire room, in fact, was not his room at all. He frowned slightly, his sharp eyes taking in everything. The room itself was not threatening; in fact it was quite a pleasant room to awake in. It was large and bright with great tall windows to let in light and heavy red curtains that could make it dark, if they were closed. Only one was, the closest one to the bed. Judging by the angle of the light splashed across the floor from the other windows, if it had been opened Sherlock would have awakened to sunlight in his eyes. He thought it very decent of the curtains to decide to be closed.

The bed, he noted, had a large heavy covering of the same red color but not, he didn’t think, from the same material. For one thing, the curtains looked course and the covering felt soft. He was not, however, close enough to the curtains to feel them and confirm this hypothesis. Aside from the bed and the curtains, the room looked mostly empty. This was an illusion, however, created by the size of the room, for it was actually very nicely furnished. There was a table large enough to seat two, in fact having two chairs seated at it, set out near the windows, most likely to take advantage of the light. There was also one large chair near to the bed and the closed window.  The chair was a dark blue which did not quite seem to match the curtains but perfectly matched the sofa and second large chair that was set out across the room near to the fireplace. A second, smaller table and a smaller chair was also laid out in the same area.  
Perhaps that was why something felt wrong. The blue chair had been isolated from its friends. Poor chair, all alone, even if it was placed in a prime position to see out the window…or would if the curtains were opened.

Altogether, the room was pleasant and elegant. The furniture was of good quality, there were nice carpets on what he could see of the floor, bookcases filled with books and curious objects lined one wall, paintings and drapes hung from others, and a large man was standing near the lone chair, also in nice attire. There were definitely worst places to wake up in. He moved to sit up, still feeling off and disconcerted in a way that he didn’t really think a misplaced chair could cause, and discovered to some alarm that his arm was tied tightly against his chest. He stared down at it, frowning, still struggling to sit up.

The man moved, making Sherlock jump. Somehow his mind had processed right over his presence, taking little more note of him than of any of the furniture. The man was large, huge in fact, of a size that it occurred to Sherlock that he could be frightening, yet somehow he wasn’t. He was, in fact, somewhat familiar, which was odd, because Sherlock didn’t think he knew any very large men with skin the color of coffee.

“I know you,” he announced to the man as he moved to help Sherlock sit propped up.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, his voice gentle, as were his hands as he helped to arrange the pillows under Sherlock’s back. The help was appreciated as his body was feeling distinctly odd, slightly floaty and weak and his thoughts didn’t seem to be quite connected. He studied the familiar stranger, trying to force his mind to piece this strangeness together.

“Would you like a drink, sir?” the man asked, gesturing to a table next to the bed where a tray of tea was laid out. Without waiting for an answer he was already pouring. Sherlock’s deductive skills told him that the man was knowledgeable in his role, expertly preparing his tea in exactly the way Sherlock usually took it. From his accent and skin color, he determined that he was not native to England. Many facts swirled swiftly through his mind, taking in his stance, his clothes, his looks and his accent, but the facts all whipped about uselessly without coming together as they usually did to give him a complete picture. He knew the man was not native. He tried to think what that meant. He remembered, briefly, of a people of similarly colored skin, but in his mind’s eye their clothes and habitat were vastly different and therefore unconnected to the man standing at his side, encouraging him to drink the unasked for tea, patiently offering it even as Sherlock continued to stare blinkingly at him.

“Please sir, won’t you have some tea?” he asked when Sherlock still made no motion to drink. Perhaps…the thought surfaces slowly, feeling heavy and foreign in his mind…perhaps if the man was not from England and he was not from a foreign country…perhaps he came from some place further. A story came from the far reaches of his mind, a story of men from the moon. Was this man from the moon? He opened his mouth to ask but before he could the man was pushing the tea to his lips and he found himself drinking. The tea was warm and there was nothing in the taste that suggested drugs and he was, he realized, thirsty. The man made a motion to pull the cup away and he lifted his free hand to hold it, drinking it empty. The man gave him a pleased look. He continued to hold the cup even after Sherlock took a hold of it, which was just as well because he suspected he might have dropped it if left to himself.

Perhaps that was why he felt so unsettled. He seemed to be ill. And there was another wrong thing. If he was ill, where was Watson? Watson was always there when he was hurt. He didn’t really hurt even if he was ill, though there was a strange ache in his arm and shoulder. It wasn’t pain, or if it was it was so disconnected from himself that he could study the feeling without actually feeling it. It occurred to him that the ache in his arm and shoulder might have something to do with the reason why his arm was tied to his chest. He turned his head to try and look at it, finding his arm and chest swathed in white.

“Are you in pain, sir?” asked the man and he jumped slightly, having forgotten he wasn’t alone.

“No,” he answered the large moon man, because it didn’t hurt, which seemed odd in itself. Cautiously, he poked at his arm with his free hand until a large, warm hand covered his and gently pulled it back.

“You are called James,” Sherlock remembered suddenly, “And you prefer coffee to tea.”

“That’s right,” the man agreed, pouring more tea to offer him, but Sherlock wasn’t quite so thirsty anymore and shrugged the offering away, frowning slightly. The mothering behavior reminded him once again of his absent friend.

“Where’s Watson?” he asked, looking about the room just in case he hadn’t missed his friend the first time around. The room was still quite empty except for him and James. The disturbed feeling was growing of something being desperately wrong, lost memories dancing about just out of reach of something dark and looming. The ache in his shoulder began to grow stronger.

“He had to leave,” James answered, “But he left me to help you. He left this tea for you to drink.”

Sherlock considered this. “Watson wants me to drink the tea?” he asked slowly, brow still furrowed. That made sense, but something still felt off, not least of which was how James’s consoling tone reminded him of the way one reasoned with an unruly child.

“Yes sir,” he answered, still holding the tea towards his face. While Sherlock tried to work out if he would have obeyed Watson even if he were there himself holding the tea, James took advantage of his distraction to hold the cup to his lips and he found himself drinking it before he quite realized. He drew the cup away again after Sherlock managed to swallow a couple of sips, luckily without choking. This time Sherlock didn’t stop him from withdrawing as he frowned slightly.

“You make a very good Watson,” he decided, though he looked around the room again in hopes that the real Watson might have appeared while he wasn’t looking. He hadn’t. James smiled at him, still holding the cup of tea ready to offer him more but no longer pushing it on him. Sherlock turned his contemplations back upon the room and the wrong feeling. His final conclusion was that the room was nice but boring. And that he remembered, sort of, that he had been there for some time. His memories seemed disjointed in a way that ought to be alarming but the floating feeling that hid the pain of his shoulder and arm also blanketed his fears and unease.

Then the door at the far end of the room opened. A man strode through, followed by a stream of men carrying trays. The men with trays walked to the largest table and started to lay out plates of food. The first man ignored them, walking to the bed. He was tall with short, dark hair and he dressed in nice clothes that spoke of someone with power and money. Like with James, Sherlock got a feeling of instant familiarity despite feeling too disjointed to remember the man’s name. With James, the familiarity had come with an instinctive trust, almost a fondness. His instinct towards this new familiar stranger was complicated. He didn’t know what he felt towards him.  
Unease warred with familiarity. Everything was too disjointed.

“Hello, Sherlock,” he said, smiling. It wasn’t a pleasant smile like James’s, and left Sherlock feeling confused.

“Hello,” he answered, still analyzing and trying to puzzle the situation out. He was beginning to suspect it wasn’t the situation that was so wrong, but himself.

“Are you hungry?” the man asked, reaching out a hand to gently touch his face in an intimate manner. Sherlock allowed the motion, feeling too confused to pull away, not to mention his instincts told him that was a bad idea. Belatedly, it occurred to Sherlock that a question had been asked and that he hadn’t answered, but the man didn’t seem to really care. “James,” he said, his eyes still on Sherlock, “We are going to dine now.”

“Of course, my lord,” James answered, and when the stranger pulled away James pulled back Sherlock’s covers, his great arms maneuvering beneath him to support his back and legs. Before Sherlock quite knew what he was intending, James had lifted him with a practiced ease as though he were a child. Sherlock’s good arm went automatically around James’s neck as he was carried towards the table.

“You are very strong,” Sherlock remarked, staring at what he could see of James’s face from this up close in wonder. He was already being placed into the chair before it occurred to him to be indignant or wonder why he couldn’t have walked. Shaky as his limbs felt, surely with James’s help he could have managed. Unless something was wrong with his legs? He looked down at his lap but his legs were hidden by his clothes. He was able to note that he wasn’t really dressed to dine so much as he was for sleep, particularly as his top seemed completely bare but for the bandages. Noticing that, he started to shiver. James was already prepared however, helping his good arm through the sleeve of a robe and draping it around his bad shoulder, tucking it closed. Once he was settled, James drew away.

“Comfortable, love?” the stranger asked, sending that thrill of wrongness once more running through him. Avoiding an answer, Sherlock looked at the table. It was laid out with all kinds of food, all of it expensive and expertly made, but he didn’t think he felt particularly hungry. Not to mentioned that he had only one hand with which to serve himself and he still felt uncoordinated and floaty. If he tried to eat anything he’d probably end up dumping it in his lap, or on the floor. The stranger was not so encumbered and ate with a healthy appetite, occasionally pausing to speak about his morning. Mostly he spoke in terms of who he met with, who was insufferably boring and what had pleased him, without going into the details of what exactly it was he did outside of Sherlock’s rooms. Sherlock reacted on instinct alone, making the odd noise to show he was listening and occasionally giving a cautious smile when the man said something he obviously thought was amusing. After nearly fifteen minutes of this had gone by, the man finally leaned in, drawing his chair closer. Sherlock didn’t think he liked it but something akin to fear, if he could feel something like fear as disconnected from everything as he felt, told him not to draw away.

“Aren’t you going to eat, Sherlock?” the man asked, and he lifted a grape and brought it to Sherlock’s lips. When Sherlock hesitantly opened his mouth, the man slid the grape in and his fingers as well, drawing them out slowly and running them over his lips. Feeling slightly sick, Sherlock managed to choke down the offered tidbit. 

“My poor Sherlock, you look so lost,” the man said, one hand drifting to pat him in a comforting manner on his thigh, “Do you remember who I am?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered quickly, though he didn’t really, and the man smiled before taking a fork from his plate and bringing the food to Sherlock’s mouth. He ate obediently, something deep inside him chaffing at being fed like an infant by a stranger who gave off weird vibes, making his shoulder twinge, but something equally as deep restraining him from any form of resistance. Trying to put names with faces, to remember, brought his thoughts back to Watson. Automatically he searched the room again for his friend, but the only people there was a man and a woman serving at the table and the man. Even James had vanished.

“Where’s the moon man?” Sherlock asked, frowning slightly at his disappearance.

“What?” the man asked, startled and laughing, “Who?”

“The man who is strong and not from England,” he answered, frowning in a way that closely resembled a pout at being laughed at. The stranger only laughed a bit harder.

“You know, I think I quite like you, like this,” he said, and then, “James will come back when I call for him. Has he been taking good care of you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, “He gave me tea. I wasn’t going to drink it, but he said Watson left it. Where is Watson?” The man stopped laughing, and though he didn’t look annoyed, not really, there was something sharp about his smile.

“I suppose he will be by sometime later,” he answered. He looked into Sherlock’s eyes, staring deep and searching and intense. “What’s my name?” he asked abruptly.

Sherlock frowned, the information dancing just out of reach. He had an impression of thorns and darkness. “Blackthorn?” he guessed at last, cringing slightly as he half expected the man to turn violent. But the stranger merely sighed in a manner of a disappointed schoolteacher having to correct the same mistake for the hundredth time. 

“That’s Blackwood, Sherlock, ‘wood. And don’t you remember, love, I told you to call me by my first.”

“Henry,” Sherlock remembered suddenly, and the stranger smiled.

“Yes, love,” he said, patting Sherlock’s thigh once more, “Henry. Are you still hungry?”

“No,” Sherlock answered quickly, feeling slightly queasy, in fact, and Blackwood had the food sent away with the servants. James was suddenly by his side again.

“The bed, James,” Blackwood answered, and before Sherlock could protest that he could walk, surely, he was being carried to the bed.  
James had a strange look on his face as he arranged him up on the pillows, as though he were not truly comfortable in his actions though his hands remained as sure and gentle as ever. He took his time at it, too, helping Sherlock to set up with at least four pillows stuffed between him and the headboard. Blackwood eventually became impatient.

“You can go now, James,” he said, his eyes still on Sherlock with a strange, almost hungry look that Sherlock couldn’t place but that sent a thrill of unease down his spine. Finally James did leave, and they were alone in the room. Sherlock knew because he looked around just to be sure, and all that he found was the room just as it had looked when he first awoke, except that the chairs to the table had moved slightly, and Blackwood was at his side instead of James. And the light on the floor had moved.

“Sherlock,” Blackwood whispered and moved closer, “Love…” And he came closer still until his lips touched gently against Sherlock’s own, strong hands wrapping around the back of his head and against his back to draw him closer. The feeling of wrong grew, but so did the disconnectedness, and he felt strangely passive as the other man’s lips continued to move against him. Blackwood moved over him, easing him back against the pillows though the top of his head was touching against the uncomfortably hard headrest, and then Blackwood was straddling him, his lips demanding and tongue pressed into his mouth.

The taste was wrong. He tasted of wine and blood and incense and not at all like a kiss was supposed to taste…it was meant to taste of smoke and coffee or tea…and possible tinged by the faint smells of a hospital. This was wrong. And abruptly he remembered that he really wasn’t supposed to be kissing other men and tried to draw back. Blackwood didn’t let him go right away, no matter how he squirmed, and the feeling of being very very wrong grew, but finally the other man drew back.

“No,” Sherlock told him quite firmly, trying to sound sure of himself but not quite able to suppress the cringe at Blackwood’s expected reaction. Once again, the man surprised him by not turning to violence.

“What is it now?” he demanded instead, waiting semi-patiently for Sherlock to explain. Sherlock might have felt more at ease if Blackwood didn’t spend his time waiting to remove his own shirt.

“I can’t…” Sherlock answered, still feeling so disjointed it was hard to make his mind work properly to give out sentences.  
“Why not?” Blackwood asked, as though he honestly had no idea why Sherlock might not want to do this.

“Watson wouldn’t like it,” Sherlock decided upon, in the same tone and method he used to use as a child, to make it sound as though his actions had nothing to do with him and couldn’t be helped. It occurred to him only after that the correct, normal response might have been something more like ‘it’s illegal and immoral’ but he suspected that wouldn’t matter. That those reasons had been thrown out the window long ago.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Blackwood answered, stroking his face gently, “We’ve already discussed this. It’s just like his arrangement with Mrs. Watson.” Sherlock frowned at this. That made no sense at all. He just wasn’t completely sure why. “Shhh,” Blackwood whispered, descending upon him again, this time to suck at his neck, one hand sliding down and beneath his pants.

“No,” Sherlock murmured, whimpering slightly, but this time Blackwood paid him no mind at all but continued his ministrations, pulling his robe open with one hand and sliding his other along his backside and down his crack in an altogether far too intimate gesture to be allowed. Most disconcerting of all was the feeling of familiarity. Blackwood fit against him with the sureness of a lover. Memories flitted disturbingly past, moments of touch, of pain, and then flitted away again before he could catch them. This time, he let them go, and a part of himself drifted away with them.

He felt Blackwood’s movements but at the same time he didn’t feel like himself. It wasn’t himself being disrobed, having his pants shoved down, his skin touched by hot hands, hot lips, breath and wetness. Skin against skin, lips against lips, serpentine tongue invading, heavy, hot body tangling with his own. He felt it all, but in the same way he had felt the pain of his arm and shoulder…a distant ache that belonged to someone else. The ache was growing as Blackwood’s passion grew almost violent, jostling his injuries in a way that didn’t seem entirely healthy.

“You look so confused, Sherlock,” Blackwood whispered after a particularly deep kiss, one hand in his hair and the other shoving its fingers up his ass, “You’d think you’d be used to this, love.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock answered, squirming slightly at the uncomfortable touches. They felt wrong against his skin. There was no returning passion in himself, not the slightest stirring of his loins or enjoyment at heat or touch. There wasn’t really revulsion either, just a floating sensation. Blackwood laughed and kissed his forehead in a strangely parental fashion before easing his legs apart and positioning him as he liked.

Sherlock gave a small gasp when he was entered. It didn’t hurt, exactly. Nor was there pleasure. There was a bombardment of senses of skin on skin, in skin. As Blackwood thrust, moaning with pleasure and jostling his entire body, Sherlock lay there passively, staring at him, his mind overloaded with details and empty of all thought. Analytically, he timed him, hands clutching rhythmically at the bed sheets for something to hold. His head began to bang uncomfortably against the headboard and he shifted it. Blackwood leaned heavily on his hurt arm and shoulder, but he couldn’t shift that so he accepted the signals to his brain and left it.

Blackwood kept up his pace of slow but passionate thrusts for eleven minutes and forty-two seconds before he grabbed Sherlock’s hips and shifted him, dragging him slightly as he buried himself as fully as he could with a grunt of sheer pleasure, thrusting hard and fast with a renewed urgency. The change in the angle brought an unexpected sensation of sharp, intense pain with it that managed to tear through his body even past the deadness that seemed to envelope his mind and Sherlock whimpered, barely recognizing the sound as made by himself.

The pain cut through all his defenses and for the next minute his mind crashed back into his sensations with a terrible, insanity-inducing clarity. That he was being fucked, raped, by Lord Blackwood, hidden in a pretty gilded cage as his pet lover, that he was trapped alone with a monster and it hurt and it went on and on without stop. Then Blackwood gave one final, deep thrust and released himself with an exalted cry, hands clutching his hips so tightly they were sure to leave bruises as he flooded Sherlock’s body with wave upon wave of his essence. Finally he relaxed over him, lying on top of his hurt arm with his penis still buried inside. In that moment, if Sherlock hadn’t been feeling as weak as a newborn kitten with only one good arm, he could have happily strangled the man, cut off his dick and shoved it down his throat. As it was, he let out a sob, biting his lip in his futile effort to hold it back. Blackwood pulled out, rolling off of him.

“Sorry, love,” he said, shifting slightly to inspect Sherlock’s hole, “Looks like I tore your stitches again.”

And the minute past and his mind fell away again, so that all that was left was a bitter feeling of wrong and a few twinges of discomfort. His mind continued to analyze nonetheless; he could feel the bed shifting with every move Blackwood made, shaking slightly as Blackwood continued to heave slightly from the effort he just made. He could feel the twinges of disassociated pain, in his arm, his shoulder, from the memory of hands on his hips, from inside him where he felt something hot and wet oozing out, up his crack.  
Blackwood shifted again and he felt lips on his neck, on his mouth, a tongue sliding between his lips, licking his teeth moving further inside. Suddenly Blackwood sat up, moving suddenly to straddle his chest.

“Here love, I want you to clean this for me.” Sherlock stared at the slick, slightly bloody sight dangling before him with utter confusion, his eyes taking in every detail but his brain not connecting the dots to understand what Blackwood wanted. “With your mouth, Sherlock,” Blackwood explained patiently, “Use your tongue. After all, it’s your fault it got all dirty, so you really ought to be the one to clean it.” Which made sense…sort of…except that something about that felt wrong. Still feeling lost and alone and confused, Sherlock hesitantly stuck out his tongue to do as he asked.

Blackwood’s skin tasted of blood and salt and bitterness, not at all pleasant, but Sherlock by that point hardly noticed. He felt so overloaded right then that nothing felt real.

As he did as asked, Blackwood’s breathing picked up and Sherlock felt his cock twitch beneath his tongue. “Now take it in your mouth, Sherlock,” Blackwood ordered, and Sherlock followed it to the letter, if not the law, until Blackwood managed to gasp out, “Front-ways, Sherlock,” while using his hands to shift it around so that the head was pushed between Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock analyzed the tastes, the feel of heat and blood, the sheer size pushed over his tongue towards the back of his throat, the way it began to grow inside his mouth. It felt odd. A part of his mind couldn’t help but think that this was awfully quick for another go. Watson, he remembered usually took at least half an hour to feel up to doing something again, with a few well remembered exceptions.

Instinctively, he delved into memories of Watson, while the rest of his mind processed the feel of Blackwood, until a large foreign presence shoved down his throat brought his attention very urgently to his lack of breath.

All thought, all analysis, all memory, pain, fear, anger, wrongness, faded to the background as his lungs pulled desperately for air that couldn’t come. His throat hurt, his lungs hurt, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t seem to move, and the world was turning black at the edges. Blackwood didn’t stop, didn’t let up, groaning deeply with pleasure. And as the world finally faded completely away, one last thought occurred to Sherlock. That he might actually prefer it if he didn’t wake up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Sherlock awoke slowly with a vague, unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. He was in a bed, was his first observation, but he dismissed that as the reason behind the wrong feeling because he almost always awoke in a bed. He ached, mostly in his head but the rest of his body was there too. He opened his eyes and took in the familiar strange room and the man who was just finishing getting dressed next to the bed. Strange memories danced with even stranger, leaving him adrift as to figure out the truth. Strangest was the memory of being intimate with the newly dressed man, but that didn’t seem quite real. Then he managed to look down at himself, still naked but for the bandages around his arm and shoulder and decided that perhaps it was after all. The man turned at the sound of the sheets rustling.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” he said, smiling at him with a fond expression, “I wanted you to take your medicine before I go.” Sherlock accepted the offered pill silently, swallowing it down with the cold bit of tea left in the cup by the bed. His eyes never left the stranger, watching his every move warily as he straightened out his clothes to make himself presentable. He didn’t offer Sherlock back his own, which had been cast aside to the floor, and Sherlock didn’t ask. He felt passive, strangely content to lie on the bed naked without even pulling a sheet to cover himself. “You’ll have clean sheets soon,” the man continued, taking out a pocket watch to glance at the time and frowning at it slightly, “And the doctor will come to see about the…bleeding. I am sorry about that.” Sherlock didn’t answer. The man stopped messing with his clothes and looked at him properly. “Well,” he said at last, “I’ll see you tonight, Sherlock. Take care, love.” And he bent in briefly to kiss Sherlock on the forehead in an oddly domestic gesture before turning away and making for the door.

“Goodbye,” Sherlock said, speaking for the first time. As the man was already half out the door he wasn’t entirely sure he even heard him. Then he simply let himself exist, lying motionless on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. He only moved at last when he heard the door open.

The promised doctor, accompanied by the colossal James strode swiftly into the room. For once, Holmes’s memory didn’t need to struggle to place a name with a face.

“Watson?” he said, struggling to pull himself up with one arm. Watson approached the bed quickly, despite an awkwardly pronounced limp. He didn’t have his cane. He also looked as though he had lost a bit of weight. But he was dressed well enough, clean, shaven, without any obvious cuts or bruises on his exposed skin. He still looked wrong, like he didn’t belong in the room. There was a strange gleam in his eye and when he was close enough, Sherlock decided it looked a bit like anger. It made him nervous. He suddenly remembered that he was lying naked in a bed he had just shared with another man and awkwardly he grasped at the sheet to cover himself.

“Holmes,” Watson said, a warm hand covering his and stopping his struggle with the sheets, before he helped to arrange the pillows so he could sit up properly. The doctor’s body felt warm and comforting as he leaned over him, arms occasionally brushing his skin. For a moment, the wrongness went away. Then Watson stepped back and his eyes swept over Sherlock’s body with the clinical observation of a doctor, and Sherlock finally recognized the look in his eyes. It was the same look he got whenever Sherlock would get himself hurt, usually through his own folly.

“Sorry,” Sherlock said. Watson paused, head turning back to look Sherlock in the eyes, seeming to be searching for something. 

“Holmes,” he said, hand brushing through Sherlock’s hair while the other clutched his hand tightly. “It’s alright.” Sherlock believed him. The doctor started inspecting him again, but didn’t let go of his hand. Sherlock relaxed slightly, now that he didn’t think Watson was mad at him, until Watson put a hand on his knee.

“Holmes, old boy, I’m afraid I must ask you to part your legs,” he said gently. Feeling suddenly tense again, some of the wrongness leaking back, Sherlock nonetheless did as he asked. He studied Watson’s face while Watson studied him, taking in the tightness around his mouth, the gleam in his eye. Sherlock had been right the first time. Watson was angry, furious in fact, but doing his best to hide it behind the neutrality of his profession. When he spoke, his voice remained soft. “Sorry, old boy, looks like I need to sew you up.” 

Sherlock turned his eyes away as Watson pulled out his supplies. It didn’t hurt, what the doctor was doing, though it felt as if it should have. He could feel Watson’s fingers, cloth, metal…the actual sensation of the needle going in didn’t register but he could feel the pull of the thread. He didn’t feel pain, not down there. His head still hurt. And when his eyes filled with tears it wasn’t from the stitches but from the wrongness of everything.

Watson finished as quickly as he could and turned away completely, handing bloodied cloths and instruments to James. He was angry; Sherlock could see it in every stiff, silent movement even with his back to Sherlock, even with Sherlock’s eyes unaccountably blurred with unwept tears. Sherlock couldn’t really blame him; if Watson had lain with another man and then asked Sherlock to come in to clean him up, Sherlock might have been angry too. Finally, unable to take Watson’s silent rage any longer, he cried out, “I’m sorry!”

Watson turned back to him swiftly at the cry, dropping the cloth he had been using to clean his hands. He reached out and Sherlock fell forward, untied hand clutching at Watson’s shirt while he kept up a mantra of ‘sorry, sorry, please, don’t leave, sorry’. Watson pulled him close, one hand in his hair the other at his back, rubbing it, as the words gave way to incoherent sobs.

“Holmes, Holmes, dear boy, come on, hey,” Watson whispered into his hair as Sherlock slowly let himself relax, calming enough to realize that Watson wasn’t rejecting him, that his soothing words sounded a bit broken in fact, as though he were crying. But that seemed wrong. Watson didn’t cry, no more than he did. He pulled back to look and found Watson’s eyes bright with tears and pain.

“Watson, you’re crying,” he said in confusion, raising his hand to his face. Watson leaned in slightly to the touch.

“Yes,” he answered, “Yes I am.” Sherlock frowned, wondering what great tragedy could make his Watson cry and not liking it. Then Watson leaned back again. “Well,” he said, “Let’s see about getting you cleaned up, eh? Perhaps we should move to the couch.”

The journey to the couch was much more difficult than Sherlock knew it should be. After helping him into a robe, it took the combined effort of Watson and James to keep Sherlock on his feet and on a straight path. They took it slowly but by the time they reached their destination Sherlock was trembling with exertion. The world spinning around him, he sat back and let Watson run a warm, damp towel over him, not even stirring when Watson began on his private regions. Watson washed his hair last, having him lower his head back into a basin on a chair held steady by James. The water was warm and Watson’s hands gentle as he messaged his scalp, though the basin’s edge against his neck was not very comfortable. Then he toweled him off, leaving it tied about his head, and James carried away the cleaning materials to bring him a new set of clothes. Like his last clothes, they were of the sort one might wear to bed, which suited Sherlock’s sleepy demeanor perfectly. Watson had to help him dress as his limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated, not to mention one of his arms was still wrapped to his chest. There wasn’t a proper top, just the robe, and Watson took the opportunity to check on whatever wounds the bandages had wrapped. Sherlock himself wasn’t certain; he couldn’t really feel the pain and he had no memory of receiving them in the first place.

After everything was finished and Sherlock was clean and warm, Watson joined him on the couch, pulling Sherlock half on top of him as he put one leg up and let the other rest on the floor. It was comfortable, familiar. It reminded him of home. And at the same time, it reminded him how wrong everything was, because this wasn’t home, and he wasn’t supposed to feel so weak, and Watson’s hands weren’t supposed to tremble slightly as he ran the towel over his hair, and Sherlock wasn’t supposed to feel small and wrong and trapped every time he went to move his wrapped arm and found out he couldn’t. He felt sick and like he was infecting Watson just by leaning on him, dragging him into this wrong room after wrong things happened.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, curling slightly into Watson’s chest, and the towel stopped moving over his hair.

“Why are you sorry?” Watson asked, his voice almost in Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock frowned slightly because he hadn’t thought his apology would need to be explained, and because he didn’t know how to put the wrongness of everything into words. So he settled on what he did understand.

“I laid with another man.” Watson’s arm tightened around him, as though to draw him even closer while his other dropped the towel, settling Sherlock’s head under his chin.

“Don’t you remember?” Watson said, “I gave you my permission.” Sherlock frowned, because that didn’t sound like it could be right. But then, if it wasn’t, wouldn’t Watson have been rejecting him, throwing him to the ground? Watson’s arms were solid and warm, holding him in a manner careful but strong. It was not the hold of anger or rejection. Then Watson continued to talk, his voice low. “I said…I said, ‘it’s not okay…but you have my permission. I won’t be angry with you if you lay with him. Not even if you enjoy it.’”

“I didn’t enjoy it,” Sherlock answered, and he felt Watson stiffen slightly, holding him just a little bit tighter. “I didn’t enjoy it but I didn’t hate it…”

“And I’m still not angry with you,” Watson answered.

“I think…I think I went away. And when I come back my brain doesn’t work quite right. It’s like…it’s like what you wrote. A machine without a heart.”

“Go as far away as you need to. And after…when we leave…I’ll bring you back. I won’t let you be a machine.” Sherlock considered this. He thought about saying he didn’t mind being a machine, except that perhaps he did, because he didn’t feel quite whole like this. 

“Something isn’t right,” he said instead, “But I can’t see…why can’t I see it?”

“You are…ill,” Watson answered, “Just…just let it go. Let me take care of it.”

“You said we will leave. When will we leave?” But Watson didn’t answer right away, his body tensing slightly.

“Forget about that,” he said at last, “Just…forget. Don’t talk of leaving, just…let it go.” The words were vaguely familiar and Sherlock had the sudden impression that he had had these conversations already. Of course; Watson had said himself they had already discussed some things. Why couldn’t he remember, though? He always remembered everything, but now…now everything was shrouded in a dense fog. It was beginning to grow distressing, even through the fog that had entrapped his mind and dulled his emotions along with the pain.

“I can’t…” he said, squirming in Watson’s hold as he tried to find something to grasp onto, “I can’t deduct…”

“Holmes, old boy, Ho…mph,” Watson said, trying to get him to still as Sherlock’s elbow found his stomach. 

“Watson, this room makes no sense,” Sherlock insisted, though he stopped squirming as the room began to spin. “Watson, the room is dancing. Make it stop.”

“Lie still,” Watson instructed him, running his fingers soothingly through his hair and the world settled again around them. “There now. 

Then for a while, they just existed, lying on the couch while Watson stroked his hair gently. After a while James was suddenly at their side again and Watson suggested that they walked around the room for a bit.

“I do not see the point in this excursion,” Sherlock told him as they led him towards the windows. His balance was precarious and his legs felt as weak as a newborn lamb’s, but Watson seemed to think it important so he only gave token complaints to the request and allowed himself to be supported and led until they stood in the sunlight.

Outside the window was not London. He wasn’t sure what he expected to see. He should have already known; surly this was not his first trip to look out of this strange, familiar room, yet the view was utterly unexpected. They were high up, overlooking a large drop to a courtyard, and beyond that to trees and hills.

“Where are we, Watson?” Sherlock asked. His companion sighed softly, his hand tightening slightly about his waist where it supported him. It occurred to Sherlock that, just as this couldn’t be the first time he’d looked out this window, it was probably not the first time he had asked this question. At any rate, it was a question he should doubtlessly already know the answer to in infinite detail.

“Blackwood’s small little kingdom, far from the civilized world,” Watson answered, his voice sounding cold and bitter and Sherlock shivered slightly in his arms. He felt Watson’s lips brush the side of his head as he whispered, “Don’t worry about it.” Sherlock frowned, worrying anyway, his mind picking at the threads of memory, trying to piece it together.

“He wanted London…” he remembered, doubtfully. London felt far away, like something he had dreamed once, despite the expectation he had had to see it out the window when they first approached.

“He didn’t get it,” Watson answered, whispering into his hair, breath warm across his ear, “You stopped him.”

“He fell…almost broke his neck,” Sherlock remembered, the fog slowly rolling back, giving just enough for the pieces to fit together before rolling back again. It was giving him a headache. “He got his arm in the way…the chain broke his arm, but he lived…and then…then…Watson, it won’t sit still, I can’t think, I can’t…”

“Hey, shhh…it’s okay. I’ll remember for you.” Sherlock allowed himself to be calmed, but in a brief moment of insight he understood everything, even without remembering at all.

“It’s not okay, is it. Not really. And I keep leaving you alone to face it all, because I can’t…” He let his voice trail away. For a moment, Watson says nothing, just holds him. When he did speak his voice was tired, sad and tired, but strong nonetheless.

“No,” he said, “No, it’s not okay. But it will be. And I’m not alone.” They stood together, staring out the window in silence until the light began to fade. Then James and Watson helped him back to bed and Watson stroked his hair until he fell asleep.


	3. The Gilded Room Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Sherlock awoke slowly with a vague, unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. He was in a bed, was his first observation, but he dismissed that as the reason behind the wrong feeling because he almost always awoke in a bed. He was not wearing a shirt was his next, the cover heavy and soft against his bare skin, and he moved both hands to cautiously fold it back. He was not, in fact, wearing any clothes. This seemed particularly indecent as he was not in his own bed. Despite this, and the slight spinning sensation that movement gave him, he did not grow alarmed. He knew this bed. In fact, he slowly deduced, he had been sleeping in this very bed for some time now. Which created the interesting question of how a bed that he apparently had been using for days, perhaps weeks or even months, could still not be considered his own. The answer to that question eluded him and he gave it up swiftly.

The room, like the bed, was familiar. It was a room he knew intimately, from the names of the books on the shelves to the stain on the sofa hidden beneath a well placed pillow. He was alone in the room, he discovered. He was unsure of the time; the heavy curtains were drawn across the windows letting in no light whatsoever. The room was shadowed, flickering in the firelight. It gave the impression of being the middle of the night, yet Sherlock did not feel inclined towards sleep. He got up.

Standing left the spinning in his head worse and his legs felt unsteady beneath him but he managed unaided. Looking down at his body he saw nothing for cause for alarm. No bandages anyway, though there were a few bruises about his hips. He poked one speculatively and felt a dull ache, but otherwise they didn't hurt. Nothing hurt like he would expect it; he pinched his arm, wary of a few more bruises found about his forearm and wrists, and again felt only a numbed twinge. So he must be drugged in some form or another.

Frowning, he took a shaky step away from the bed, taking the cover with him like a large cape before his eyes fell upon a robe laid out nearby. Checking once more to make sure he was truly alone, he let the cover fall and took the robe. It took rather more effort than he had anticipated to get it on, the arms kept getting confused and at one point he managed to get both his arms through one hole, but in the end he got it. He tied it closed with slow care, making an effort to smooth out the cloth where it caught and bunched up. Finally, feeling more or less covered if not decently dressed, he made a stumbling gait towards the door he instinctively remembered to contain a bathroom.

The door was hidden in the shadow of a bookcase, nearly indiscernible from the wall, but Sherlock made his way unerringly and opened the door. There was a large mirror there, and various supplies including a comb, a basin filled with water, and shaving cream but no razor. Sherlock stared at the foam with a slight frown, running his hand over his face and finding it to be clean shaven. A large bathtub was also set up in the room but no obvious source of water other than the small basin. Sherlock used it to splash his face, the cool water doing nothing to relieve him of the cobwebs that seemed to coat his mind. Through still another door was a toilet. Altogether the room was small, though of an elegant style, and not particularly interesting. He used the toilet and left it for the bedroom once again.

Still stumbling a bit, and confused as to what he was meant to be doing as well as why he was alone, he made his way to one of the windows and drew the curtain. Daylight streamed in, piercing his eyes and giving him a sudden intense pain through his skull. Squinting, he stubbornly left it open, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The world outside was quiet with no sign of life. Judging from the angle of the shadows, it was either midmorning or midafternoon. To say more precisely, he'd need to know first which way was east or west. And despite the familiarity of the sight out the window, the cobwebs didn't allow such trivial information to pass. The feeling of wrongness grew stronger, as did his headache, and finally he stumbled away from the view. He made for the only other place he could think to go, the door out of the room.

The door was locked. Sherlock didn't think that boded well at all. Unsure of how to proceed, as most of the plans that formed in his head involved either finding Watson and letting him make a plan, or growing wings and flying out the window, Sherlock finally settled upon the simplest plan. He knocked on the door.

The door made a clattering sort of noise of a lock being turned, and then opened. Sherlock ignored the inquisitive man asking how he might be of service and turned his eyes intently upon the hallway beyond the room. Unlike the room itself, it was not at all familiar. This was surprising. Surely, if Sherlock had been in this room for quite some time, he had also been in this hallway? But he felt none of the same recognition, and it unsettled him. He took a half step out the door only to be halted by a hand at his chest. He looked down at the hand and then up at the man it belonged to. The man was large, taller than Sherlock, and his expression mostly unemotional. Another just like him stood at the other side of the door while the servant stood at ready attendance inbetween.

"Sorry, sir," the large man said in a clipped, almost militarized tone, "You are not to leave the room, sir." Sherlock stared hard at him, trying to form some sort of plan that would result in the hand being gone from his chest and the hallway being free for him to walk down. Preferably, this plan would end in finding Watson; he remembered that the doctor had been there before and so was likely to be nearby. It also seemed rather unfair that Watson could leave the room and he could not. Because his brain refused to give any brilliant suggestions whatsoever, he let his muscle memory guide him, allowing the pressure at his chest to push him back, throwing his guard off balance and allowing him to slide away and past him. He managed the move with surprisingly flawless ease considering he could barely walk and had strolled several steps down the hall before the second guard managed to grab him in a firm but gentle grip.

"Here now, you can't go wandering off! Back into the room with you; if you need something, we'll bring it." Sherlock stared at him blankly, mind still processing though the data didn't quite seem to have any place to go but round and round in useless circles.

"Do you need anything, sir?" the servant who had first greeted him at the door asked while the two guards gently propelled him back to that hated room.

"Hey, I wouldn't bother with talking to him," the second guard said, his voice not unkind but not exactly friendly, "You know how the Lord keeps him, he's addled." Which Sherlock rather resented but was slightly worried that it might be true. Nonetheless, he managed to find his tongue.

"I'll just be going on a walk, thank you," he insisted, squirming in a second attempt to escape but with less success than his first and he soon found himself propelled into the room, despite putting all his weight forward and digging in with his toes.

"Do you need anything, sir?" the servant asked again, eyeing him with a slightly nervous expression.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, "I need to leave."

"Sorry, sir, we can't allow that. Do you need anything else? Some tea, perhaps?" Sherlock frowned, still digging in and still being half carried further into the room, towards the couch.

"Watson," he said at last, "I need Watson." And then, as all other resources had failed him, he tried a trick he had once used in his youth when his small size had allowed his elders and brother in particular to manhandle him far more easily than should be allowed; he went completely limp. The sudden dead weight threw his captors off balance once more, and for a second time Sherlock fell backwards in the same direction they had been pulling him, this time managing somehow to trip one of the guards over his back and into the other. It wasn't planned, not really, but the move was so familiar it didn't require thought or brain power. And finding himself free, he lurched to his feet and ran surprisingly quickly out the door. And straight into a mountain of solid muscle. He looked up into another familiar face.

"Moon Man, you have returned!" he said, "Come, I am going to see Watson." The arms did not release him, however, the man's eyes looking over his head with a disapproving frown at the two guards who were stumbling to their feet. The guards did not meet his gaze.

"Come, James," Sherlock said, pulling insistently at his arm like a child who is held back by their nurse.

"Do you wish to go out in nothing but a robe?" James asked, and Sherlock frowned, staring down at himself as he remembered how he was dressed for the first time. The robe had become twisted about in his struggles, the tie undone and leaving him barely decent. "Let me help you dress," James said, his voice low and gentle, "And then we will be going out."

"Alright," Sherlock conceded at last, though he did shout after the guards and servant before they shut the door again to bring Watson.

Getting dressed was easier than getting the robe on had been, mostly because James was there to help him. The clothes, however, were strange; they more resembled the robe he had removed than the proper attire he was accustomed to going out in, though they did at least have pants. The shirt was more robe than shirt, however, white with strange symbols on it. The servant returned just as James was putting on Sherlock's shoes with a tray of tea and no Watson in sight. Sherlock ignored the offering, just wanting to get out.

"Are we going to see Watson, now?" he asked, walking carefully towards the door while James held him at his elbow to steady him.

"I'm sorry, sir," James said in a soft voice, "Lord Blackwood has asked that you be brought to him." Sherlock frowned, a thrill of unease sending a shudder down his spine. A memory, or a string of memories, that didn't quite surface made him wary when James got that look in his eyes, that sound of apology in his voice. It meant something bad, something his thoughts shied away from. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to stay inside the quiet, empty room.

"Will Watson be there?" Sherlock asked, going slower than before. James allowed this, adjusting his own gait to barely a shuffle to match. He failed to look in Sherlock's direction at all when he answered, "Yes, he is there." They left the room.

The walk was long and Sherlock allowed it to soak into his head, through his eyes, ears, and nose, though with the way his head spun he had no clue if he would really remember the walk afterwards. It felt rather like walking in a dream, or underwater. Everything felt muffled.

James let him set the pace only until the end of the hallway, when he said they must go faster and picked up the pace. Sherlock allowed himself to be led, half stumbling and headache growing, through several passages and down several flights of stairs until James slowed at last so Sherlock could make a more dignified entrance than one of being half dragged and barely upright. Blackwood was waiting. So was Watson. And an audience of at least two dozen, if not more. He did not recognize the crowd that was gathered below the dais where Blackwood stood waiting. He didn't give them more than a passing glance anyway, his eyes drawn to his friend.

Watson did not look well. He was standing tall, firmly on his own two feet though Sherlock suspected his leg to be hurting. His hands were shackled before him and two guards flanked him on either side. Blackwood was talking, his tone ceremonious and angry, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention, his focus on the doctor. Watson's eyes turned to see him and his guarded, almost noble expression faltered, his pale face paling further.

"Watson," Sherlock said, eying his friend with some concern, "Are you well?" The hand at his elbow tightened slightly and Blackwood's tone got an edge to it that Sherlock noted briefly without attending to the man's words. Watson stared at him, something strange and frightening in his eyes. Sherlock made an attempt to approach him but the hands held him back. He frowned, turning to look up at James. James wasn't looking at him at all, though, his eyes turned towards Blackwood. Blackwood was also wearing strange garment, he noted, though his robe was black rather than white and the symbols were different. They burned red like fire in Sherlock's eyes and he felt as though they should mean something, that if his mind wasn't so addled he'd be making the connections. But he couldn't, and so he turned again towards Watson, pulling at impatiently at James's strong hold.

Suddenly, Blackwood's tone grew fiercer, and Watson was being dragged forward to center stage. Sherlock watched in alarm as Watson's shirt was removed, another guard approaching with a whip. Only then did Sherlock make note of the pillar at the center of the dais where Watson's shackles were being attached.

"Watson?" Sherlock cried, twisting in James's hold, no longer simply tugging at it but fighting it in earnest.

"It's alright, Holmes," Watson told him, his voice strange and hoarse. Sherlock didn't like it. He noted Watson already had a couple of large bruises across his front where he must have been hit quite hard. Feeling desperate to get free, Sherlock finally managed to twist his hands just so that he broke from James's grasp, lurching towards Watson and bumping hard into Blackwood on his way. He didn't quite know what to do with his freedom; Watson was still trapped after all. He just had to be near him.

"Holmes, it's alright, dear boy," Watson told him, sounding slightly desperate, "Go with James now, I'm sorry, just…don't watch." And then rougher hands were drawing him back, practically throwing him into James's hands and away from Watson. Blackwood's eyes were dark and dangerous and as mesmerizing as a viper's gaze. Sherlock found himself trapped in them. Blackwood raised his hand and Sherlock flinched back but all he did was stroke his fingers lightly across his face. When his spoke, his tone was soft and calm, at confusing odds with what Sherlock had expected.

"Sherlock, love, you must stay with James until the ceremony is over and the doctor has been punished." He sounded almost sad, regretful.

"Why? Why are you hurting him?" Sherlock asked. It was wrong.

"Damn you," Watson growled from over Blackwood's shoulder, "Did you have to bring him here?"

"Your punishment needs to be witnessed," Blackwood answered him without turning around, eyes still on Sherlock. He raised a hand and over his shoulder Sherlock could barely make out the form of the whip being raised.

"No!" he cried, struggling again, and Blackwood paused in his motion. The whip hung threatening but did not fall.

"Now, love," Blackwood said gently to Sherlock, "I'm afraid it must be done. A crime has been committed and so someone must be punished." His tone was that of one reasoning with a child, a tone Sherlock would normally resent but at that moment all his emotions were attuned to the danger Watson stood in. He listened to the words instead of the tone, trying to make sense of it. It made no sense. Watson did not commit crimes, and Watson should not be hurt.

"Why?" he asked at last, almost begging for the world to make sense once more, for the wrongness to disappear.

"I have told you," Blackwood said, tone remaining eerily gentle, "There has been a crime. He has been discovered to be conspiring against us. Someone has to be punished for this; that is the way things are. We cannot change that."

"No! It's wrong, it's…don't…don't hurt him."

"I must punish someone, Sherlock," Blackwood answered sadly, "Who would you have take his place? A servant? One of the people in the crowd? Perhaps that boy down there?" He gestured and for the first time Sherlock noticed there were children among the crowd of people, women and men, old and young. They looked frightened and stood strangely quiet, waiting to see how things turned.

"No…I…don't hurt Watson."

"It must be someone," Blackwood answered, and he jerked his hand. The whip fell. Watson didn't quite cry out, or if he did Sherlock couldn't hear it over his own cry of 'No!'

"Stop! Stop this…you must…" why wouldn't his thoughts line up, why couldn't he find a way to fix this, to make things right? He couldn't understand why this was happening, memories and sights, and smells whirled around his head, and nothing made sense.

"I told you," Blackwood answered, "It must be someone." And he raised his hand again.

"No…stop, I…me."

Blackwood hesitated. The whip did not fall. "What did you say?"

"Me. Punish me. Not him. If someone must be hurt…hurt me."

"No!" Watson yelled, struggling to escape his bonds for the first time, "Holmes, don't…!" he shouted when someone covered his mouth, smothering whatever he had to say. Sherlock watched with wide eyes before Blackwood shifted in front of him, filling his vision.

"You would take his place?"

"Yes."

Blackwood turned to face the crowd. "So you see! The Lamb offers itself for the altar! As I told you, of his own will, he will take on the pain of the people; the crime shall be paid with the blood of the innocent, and with his blood we shall lift the curse upon this land!"

He said more but Sherlock was no longer focused on his words, his attention turning back to where Watson still struggled, a cloth thrust between his teeth to replace the hand that had gagged him. The world still felt numb, not quite real, as James led him forward. His large hand squeezed Sherlock's gently, all the comfort he was able to offer as Sherlock's hands were shackled over his head to the pillar. This close he was able to see more strange markings etched into the stone, as well as a few ominous stains. The back of his shirt was opened, leaving his back bare. Cool air slid across it. Watson was angry, he could see him still twisting uselessly about from the corner of his eye. Sherlock didn't like it when Watson was upset.

Something was pushed against the crook of his arm, and he turned his head to see something being injected, felt it burning into his veins.

"Sorry, love," Blackwood whispered into his ear, "Can't have you insensible to the pain." And then the world went strange, sharper. He felt the metal of the shackles, the stone at his chest, heard the sound of feet shuffling and the flex of leather. He smelled sweat and incense and beneath that, something rotten and unpleasant. The air smelled sharp and vibrant, the sounds rushing about his ears, the stone smooth and rough against his chest. His heartbeat grew stronger in his ears, loud and alive, the senses growing stronger by the second until he had an overwhelming kaleidoscope of information. He knew everything and nothing. He didn't process it, didn't have room for thoughts and suppositions and conclusions. It was data, raw and incapacitating, knowledge without room for understanding. There was chanting and paints and feeling, nothing left but to feel.

Then there was pain, sudden and fiery and so intense he drowned in it. It flared, incorporating his entire being, all his senses, so that all he could see, hear, feel, smell, taste was centered at his back in a line of ferocious agony. As it slowly faded, leaving a ringing sensation in his ears, he became aware of the world again. Someone was struggling nearby, noises furious but muffled, leather flexed and then the world vanished again into fire.

And the pain went on and on and on, growing until it left nothing inside his mind, no room for observations or data or thoughts, not even the desire for it to end. There was nothing left. And then there was darkness.


	4. The Gilded Room Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sherlock awoke slowly with a vague, unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. He was in a bed, was his second observation, but he dismissed that as the reason behind the wrong feeling because he almost always awoke in a bed. His first observation was pain and the disturbing, hot sensation of something foreign being thrust in harsh jerks up his anal passage. He was lying on his stomach, which he thought was a good thing though he couldn't quite remember why, except that it had to do with the pain. Hands gripped his waist, heavy and strong, and were connected to the sharp thrusts. It was, altogether, decidedly uncomfortable and not a very nice way to wake up.

It didn't hurt as badly as memory told him it should. But memory was an unpleasant train of thought to pursue and so he didn't. The memories didn't feel quite real in any case, and were nowhere near complete enough to explain key information, such as where he was, and who was on top of him, and why he hurt and expected to hurt worse. He was awake, but not really, because despite his awareness his mind didn't feel quite attached to the happenings of his body. The man above him was saying something, or at the very least making noise which might have been words in the English tongue. But to understand those words, Sherlock would have to bring his mind back into the moment, to pay attention. And if he paid attention to the words, he would have to pay attention to the feel of flesh sliding uncaringly inside him and hands bruising skin, and pains, both phantom and real, that he instinctively knew would grow and grow the more connected to the world he was. So he heard and felt everything but did not listen and did not sense, and though he was awake he was not there.

Time slid in weird patterns, as the flow of his mind came closer to his body and further out to where he hardly knew himself where he was. Sometimes the evil man was there, using his body or giving him food or just to talk. Sherlock never answered, though he was never completely absent. Sometimes the evil man would grow angry and there would be pain. Sherlock never knew why. He was most there when the evil man left.

Sometimes there was the dark man, who was very good at silence, who helped him to change his clothes or take a bath or eat a meal. With the dark man Sherlock's eyes would come alive a bit, his mind as quick and active as ever as he took in the world with the intense fascination of an infant, where everything is data and new but without full purpose or reason. He still did not speak. The dark man did not seem to mind in the least. He was large and gentle, but never quite safe. Because he did what the evil man said. Even when it hurt.

Sometimes there was the angry man. The angry man was not scary but had a tight face and gentle hands. Sometimes he looked happy and sometimes he looked sad but his face was always tight and his eyes a bit dangerous. He mostly came when Sherlock's blood felt hot and sticky against his skin. Sometimes he was there at the same time as the evil man, the anger hiding behind his eyes turning furious and dark, and sometimes he was there with the dark man and sometimes he was there when Sherlock awoke. Of all the people Sherlock saw, he liked the angry man best but he always felt a bit guilty when he was there. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was for the sad look that got into his eyes, even when he smiled, or the way he asked Sherlock questions that Sherlock couldn't answer. He was closest to being alive with the angry man, allowing the words to make sense in his ears, allowing understanding to hover at the edge of his thoughts, despite the sickening feeling that he stood on the edge of a very large cliff. But he could come only to the edge, and all the words were trapped inside his tongue and never made it out. So he didn't answer when the man called him 'Holmes' or 'Old Boy' or 'Dear Chap' and he didn't call the man anything, not Angry Man, not 'Dear Fellow', not 'Watson', though he knew them all.

He knew the angry man and the dark man were planning something. He kept that secret too, better than he had before. Before the evil man asked questions and sometimes he forgot what he was not supposed to say, and he thinks that that was another reason the guilty feeling still came. Now he says nothing, and they are safe.

Sometimes the angry man looks tired, and he limps hard, and has a pinched, thin look about his face that scares Sherlock more than the evil man's rages, but the pain is entirely different and threatens to break some of his carefully built walls. And a feeling deep inside coils, and he thinks, behind the numbness, behind the pain and the dream feelings, that he might be a bit of an angry man too.

"Holmes," the Watson man whispers, cool cloth against his split skin, a wound he abstractly recognizes as a bite mark, but without memory or meaning to connect it to how it came to be upon his chest. "We're almost ready; just a little bit longer, and we will be free. One way or another." Sherlock considers this, words that make perfect sense but without any meaning for him to connect. His Watson looks pale but determined, the yellowed remains of a bruise staining his face just under his left eye. Sherlock stares at the bruise, picking at the oddity of it (was he accosted by a left-handed man? Or did he fall and hit it on something?) and he lifts his hand to reach out and touch it. Watson catches his hand, folding his fingers over his and kisses them briefly, lips chapped but warm, moist breath ghosting over his knuckles. "It's alright, dear chap, I'm alright." But the stain of yellow remains.

And sometimes Sherlock is afraid and he doesn't know why, but he can't breathe, and the walls of the room dance menacingly and remind him of the precipice beyond which his memories burn, threatening and alive. And sometimes he understands perfectly that something vital is missing, that something is broken inside, and his Watson promises that it is alright to be missing, that he will come and get Holmes back when the time is right. But sometimes words aren't enough, and Sherlock is alone inside the room, and he is afraid the bad feeling will settle into his limbs and heart and never let him free. And sometimes, when he is at his most lucid, Sherlock suspects he might have gone a little mad.


	5. The Gilded Room Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sherlock awoke slowly with a vague, unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong. He was in a bed, was his first observation, but he dismissed that as the reason behind the wrong feeling because he almost always awoke in a bed. The bed is shaking is the next, trembling violently, and something flails to strike him across the chest. He turns his head, slowly, and blinks as he makes out the form of the evil man lying next to him. It is this man who shakes the bed in violent desperation. The cause, Sherlock deduces, is a reaction to the large hands gripped tightly about the evil man's throat.

The dark man is there, staying steady and solid as the evil man thrashes wildly. All is silent but for the sound of cloth against cloth and the gentle creaking of the bed. The evil man's face has turned a grotesque red. Sherlock observes this passively, eyes wide as he drinks in the scene, as though this was merely a picture he is studying or a theatrical production, nothing tangible or real. And then the evil man turns and his eyes fall upon his, sparkling dark with the firelight. The lips move, desperate and commanding, mouthing words that he has no air to form.

 _helpmehelpmehelpme_

And the part deep inside that still understands knows that Sherlock could save him. If he screamed for help, the guards outside the door would rush in. Sherlock has had no words for days now, weeks, he knows not how long, but he could try. He could scream.

He stays quiet as the grave.

He watches as the face grows dark, crimson, as the thrashing slows, as the lips become blue.

He waits silently, still as death, and watches as the fire in the eyes grow hotter, as the stare goes beyond him to something that even at his most delirious Sherlock cannot see. The body on the bed stills. The eyes are eyes no more, just bits of glass to reflect the world without sight.

Sherlock studies him, considers him with wide eyes, head cocked. The hands leave the throat, letting the body lie heavy and alone. A large dark hand touches his shoulder, drawing his attention.

"We must go."

Sherlock is naked, bruised but not bloody, not this night. The dark man helps him to dress, first in his usual style of clothes, and then a robe to keep him warm. He leads him to the window, behind the heavy curtains where a stake has been driven deep into the wood, allowing a rope to hang down to the courtyard below.

Sherlock sees this, feels the cool night air running through his hair, and a sudden fear rises in his throat. He is leaving the room. Leaving the room is bad. He balks when the dark man tries to lead him to the sill.

"Come," the man whispers in his ear, "Watson is waiting." And he lifts Sherlock as though he were a child, a familiar gesture performed hundreds of times before. The hold is familiar, safe. And solid, so very solid, and even if his squirmed he knew it would not yield. It did not yield when he rebelled before. It did not yield when it crushed Blackwood's throat.

The night is dark and smells wet, of mud and cows and fresh dew. The dark man grips the rope with his knees, keeping one arm around Sherlock at all times, the other on the rope. Sherlock grips him back instinctively, legs wrapped around his waist as well as they are able. They descend, slowly but surely. There is the sound of harsh breaths in his ear, the scrape of stone, the gentle creak of the rope. There are also the sounds of the night, of crickets and sleeping birds and wind. The silence makes each noise stand out sharp and obvious, but no one seems to be around to hear them. They reach the ground.

Sherlock is out of the room. Now that it has happened, he doesn't know how to feel. Everything is new. It is bigger than he likes, all sharp edges and stone and wild sounds. The dark man does not give him time to get used to it, to take it in. He does not even set him down before he starts walking, slipping from shadow to shadow, into the corners Sherlock has never seen, not from his view at the window, and nothing is familiar anymore. And then he hears it, footsteps, the gait slightly off. It is accompanied by the sound of wood against stone. He knows that gait.

In the shadows, a stranger who is not a stranger is waiting, cloak wrapped to hide its features and a walking staff held in hand. If he hadn't heard him first, Sherlock might have shied away, as well as he could in the dark man's arms. But he did hear him, and so he leans forward instead and the dark man lets him slide slowly to the ground to stand upon his own feet.

The not-stranger reaches out a hand, and eyes almost invisible from the shadows of his cloak look him over with the professional gaze of a physician.

"He is not hurt," the dark man's soft voice says from behind him, deep and soft and reassuring. The other nods once.

"It is done then?"

"The snake is dead," the dark man assures him, "Too quickly, but quietly. And he knew who brought his death, in the end. He saw and he knew. It is enough."

"Good." And they started walking in silence once more. They let Sherlock walk himself, though it slowed them down a little, and they had to stop him from wandering to touch and inspect everything that caught his eye. They walked through gardens and open passageways, seeing and hearing no one, until they came to a solid, barred door. The dark man lifted the bar and let it fall to the ground with a dull thud, muffled by the earth. The door opened slowly and reluctantly, shrieking all too loudly in the darkness. They opened it only wide enough to admit them through and did not shut it again behind them.

They went quicker then, speed becoming more important than silence. The dark man lifted Sherlock and carried him so that they could go faster. Finally, after thirty full minutes of tense, harried walking, they heard the low whinny of horses ahead.

"Good lad," Watson breathed in relief, "He got the message through."

Despite his obvious relief, Watson still approached the carriage with caution, leaving Sherlock alone with the dark man. Sherlock didn't like it and struggled to follow, making a low, distressed sound. Then Watson returned, followed by another man. The dark man let him go at last and Sherlock lurched for Watson so abruptly he nearly knocked the other man down. Despite this, Watson gave him a smile, holding him steady.

"Mr. Holmes?" the stranger man said in a tentative voice, and Sherlock turned to look at him, not letting go of Watson. He knew him, and he didn't. Sherlock waited, tense, studying him, instinctively shifting so that Watson would have full use of his staff, should the need arise. The man continued to stare, an odd look upon his face. Watson cleared his throat and the man shifted, turning his eyes away.

Finally, he led the three of them to the carriage, opening the door for them. He helped Watson in first and then made a move as though to help Sherlock, but he shied away. The stranger eyed the dark man warily and did not offer his help but the dark man got in the carriage anyway. It was a tight fit after the stranger got in as well, even with Sherlock half in Watson's lap. The carriage began to move.

At first everyone was silent, and though Sherlock was still wary of the stranger, he was tired and let his eyes closed, not quite letting himself fall asleep. After a while, the others began to speak softly. Sherlock listened but did not open his eyes.

"Is he injured?" the stranger whispered, "I'm sorry, I know you warned me, but he does seem…changed."

"He is…he's…" Watson's voice answered, "He is drugged, for one."

"He's unwell," the deeper voice of the dark man suggested, "But uninjured."

"I'm sorry, but who is he? You weren't very clear in your note…"

"A friend," Watson's voice answered sharply and Sherlock tensed, but then Watson's voice gentled as a hand rubbed softly against his arm. "I'm sorry, Inspector, we are tired. It has been a long night. A long year. His name is James; without his aid we should never have escaped at all."

"You've been missing for ten months," the stranger said in a tone that invited further conversation.

"We were detained," Watson answered, "in a castle just up the road. A small one, to be sure, but in that place the people are ruled not as Englishmen but as slaves to Lord Blackwood's whim. He has them all under his power with his parlor tricks and wicked tongue. You will want to inform someone of the matter, I suppose, to help those poor people. But as for Blackwood himself, you needn't concern yourself. He is dead."

"Your note was very obscure…" the stranger said after a brief moment of silence, "It took an effort worthy of…well, it took quite a bit of work to decipher it even with Mr. Holmes's help."

"It had to be. I thought the boy I sent it with to be trustworthy but there were so many ways it could go wrong…I'm not sure where we are, for one, or whether someone would stop him or even if he would become afraid and betray us all. I did not give the note myself and wrote as little as I could that would point back to me. That is why it was sent to his brother and not to you; you would have been recognized at once should the letter have been detained. We had made a similar attempt before and…it did not end well." The hand at his arm tightened for a moment and Sherlock tensed again until the hand relaxed.

"Those sounds he makes…what happened to you there? What did Blackwood want with you?"

"Revenge," Watson answered shortly, though his hand remained gentle.

"I'm sorry Doctor, and it isn't my place to ask…but I would like to think I'm your friend. I have been worried…we feared you both dead."

"Sorry…as I said, it has been a long year."

"Are you injured, Doctor? Or your friend?"

"Just tired…he wanted me well for my skills…and he delighted in psychotic games. It wasn't me he injured if I displeased him."

"He would hurt Mr. Holmes to get to you?"

"And let me patch him up again after…As for James, his most trusted servant. He delighted in having control over such a strong giant of a man…complete loyalty he thought. He knows better now." The grim satisfaction in Watson's voice was apparent, and after he finished talking the conversation died. Sherlock, despite his attempts to remain as alert as possible, fell into a light sleep against his shoulder.

Sometime later, he jerked awake, confused and disoriented as to where he was. He wasn't in the room, and there was a stranger sitting across from him, and an arm holding him to another man's side. He panicked.

The arm left his side but firm hands settled on his shoulder and face, drawing his sight to face the man at his side, a familiar voice slowly calming his nerves. Watson was there. So was the dark man. And the stranger was also familiar and looked more frightened than threatening. Sherlock calmed.

"What did Blackwood do to him?" the stranger demanded, eyes staring at him, and Sherlock hid from the sight in the crook of Watson's neck, letting his arms move back around him now that he knew who it was.

"You said we were almost there?" Watson said instead of answering, "And the others will be there. Who are the others?"

"Mrs. Watson and Mr. Holmes are there; they wouldn't stay behind in London. Some lads from the yard as well, and a doctor. We didn't know what to expect."

"Mary is there? And Mycroft?" Watson asked, sounding slightly overwhelmed, and Sherlock responded to the tone by moving a hand to pat against his arm, pulling away slightly to look at him. Watson gave him a strangely watery smile and whispered, "I'm alright, Holmes."

"It was all I could do to keep them from riding in the carriage to meet us."

"Yes…of course. I just thought…were we declared dead, when you couldn't find us?"

"Well…er…after all those months with no word it became rather difficult…though we didn't want to think…"

"Yes, then."

And then the movement of the carriage changed, slowing down.

"You better go out first, Inspector," Watson suggested.

"Right, of course." And then the carriage stopped. Sherlock sat up, watching as the stranger climbed out followed by the dark man. He waited with Watson for a bit and then Watson was pushing him towards the door where the dark man waited to take him and Watson followed close behind. They were outside again, but a completely different outside from when they had climbed in. Though it was still dark out, there were lights lit nearby that clearly showed the surroundings. Also, they were no longer in the countryside but standing next to a large building. More people were standing around, staring at them, and some of them felt quite familiar. Something inside Sherlock's chest felt tight and uncomfortable, and he stayed close to Watson's side. Most of the crowd kept their distance but two approached them: a woman who was crying and a man with a rather substantial waistline who reminded him of the dark man, despite not being dark skinned in the least.

"John," the woman cried, "Sher…"  
"Holmes," Watson interrupted her quickly and the woman paused. She had tears in her eyes and Watson held out his arm to greet her, letting her fall into it. Sherlock did not move to embrace her but neither did he try to move away, though she had moved right against his side. "Mary," Watson whispered, and his voice sounded full of tears as well.

"Brother," the large man said. He was not crying as the woman was and Sherlock did not know what to make of him. The man held out a hand, slowly, but even so Sherlock flinched back towards Watson. The man paused, hand held in the air between them, and even more slowly he came closer until the hand rested lightly against his shoulder. Sherlock allowed it, staring at the man as though he were a new puzzle, trying to work him out. The man drew his hand away again. "Doctor?"

"In a bit," Watson answered, "Let's go inside."

And finally, as the sun was just peeking over the horizon, Sherlock found himself in a new room. It was one he had never seen, smaller than the old room had been and the furniture much shabbier, and he was allowed to walk over all of it and take in and touch everything while Watson talked to the others. They were provided with a bath and changes of clothing and food, and then left alone to sleep. And Watson did not leave him, and neither did the dark man, and the evil man did not come. And something of the bad feeling that was coiled around his chest relaxed, just a little. And he fell at last into a deep sleep.


	6. The Gilded Room Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Sherlock awoke slowly. He felt strange, disoriented; something that had been there forever and ever was missing. He was not lying in a bed, was his first observation, which could certainly account for the strangeness because he always awoke in a bed. Unless he fell asleep on the couch, or passed out on the floor, or had been injured and knocked unconscious but awoke again before anyone could either transfer him to a bed or kill him and thus negate the necessity of one. He was not dead, though, and not on a couch, and if he had passed out on the floor it was a strangely lumpy one which came accompanied with blankets. Then the not-floor shifted beneath him and he came to understand that it was a person.

The realization should have been accompanied by alarm; at least, he remembered vaguely that awakening near another person was bad and to be avoided. But this felt comfortable and good, and, even only half awake and without understanding, his instincts told him there was nothing to fear. His observations surrounding touch were quickly followed by smell and sound, and he knew almost at once why he was not afraid. The stranger was not a stranger at all. It was his Watson. His Watson shifted again, arm curling around him.

"Hmm…good morning, Holmes," the man mumbled, clearly only half awake himself. Sherlock opened his mouth to answer…only to find he still had no words. Then the bad feeling returned, and he opened his eyes.

He was in a bedroom but from an odd angle of the floor; he could not remember ever gazing upon it from this angle before. Yet the bedroom was familiar though not in a proprietary sense. At least…he didn't think it was his but at the same time it almost felt as if it was. He knew he had been there before because he remembered the details of it expressly, but it was not one he was in a habit of using. And some of the details had changed, not least being the arrangement of blankets and pillows laid out upon the floor. The carpet was new as well, and the feeling of fur beneath his hand. The room itself was small and neat and reassuringly nothing like the other familiar room. There had been another room, he remembered that…or was that a dream? The last place he remembered sleeping at was an inn. And before that was a dream, a dark dream, and he did not think it wise to dwell upon it. But he couldn't quite help it, poking at the edges, and the bad feeling was slowly seeping in. He kept his eyes wide open, taking in the differences, the smell and feel of things, everything different and most definitely not _there_.

Home.

That was what Watson had whispered as the carriage had pulled up to the door the night before. Something strange had uncurled in Sherlock's chest at that simple word.

After observing the room, paying particular attention to all things great and small which jarred against his memory so that the feeling of displacement would ease, Sherlock next took note that he did not feel ill. His skin was damp, disgustingly so in fact, but did not feel tight or hot or chilled and his limbs felt no tremors. He remembered all of this happening, for forever it seemed like, and the absence of such sensations left him feeling light. He sat up.

The world did not spin or dance about his head, though his muscles retained the ache of old hardships. It felt good to stretch and sit in that room with Watson lying languidly back upon the pillows, blinking up at him. Sherlock smiled. Watson's expression grew quite odd, something he could not fathom, so he turned his head instead to take in the room from yet another new perspective.

Standing was a slower process, and Watson stumbled up swiftly when he started, but refrained from actually taking his arm to help him up. Instead he hovered, and if Sherlock had been feeling at all himself even that would likely have annoyed him. Somehow it didn't though; Sherlock found himself merely happy that his friend was there while ignoring the hands waiting to catch him. At any rate, though his muscles ached and retained an uncomfortable weakness they did not fail him. He stood unaided and quite steady, reveling in the sensations of stretching himself out.

A person sat up on the bed and he took a startled step back, almost tripping over the blankets, but it was only Mary. When Watson saw Sherlock wasn't freaking out or about to fall, he walked to his wife's side and gave her a gentle, almost chaste kiss to her lips. She greeted him with a brightness to match the morning sun before turning to face Sherlock.

"Good morning, Sh…Holmes," she said. He answered by smiling at her and Watson, but said nothing. She arose and approached him, giving him a cautious kiss to the cheek. Sherlock allowed it unflinching and unmoving, making no motion at all towards her, and she stepped away again, around the side of a curtain to change.

"Well," Watson said, after his gaze had lingered after his wife for a long moment, "You are looking better today. Perhaps a bath is in order." Sherlock quite agreed, noting that he had been pulling anxiously at his damp night clothes for most of the time he'd been standing.

James helped him with the bath instead of Watson. James was familiar and strong and tired though he was, Sherlock did not think he needed much help at all, but he still found himself wishing Watson had stayed. James told him stories, mostly about his home in Africa where he might return. Sherlock was almost sure he had heard many of the stories before, but he couldn't remember. This wasn't right. He remembered everything. He made a particular effort now to commit every word, every detail, to stay in its place inside his head. Finally he was clean and in fresh clothing and feeling much better as James led him to where his Watson and Mary waited with breakfast. They were dressed as well and there were flowers on the table and Sherlock ignored the aroma of food to reach out for a rose, his fingers lingering over the silky feel of a petal. Touch and thought and the sight of red folding onto red in a mesmerizing dance broke sharp and clear as he had ever known; as though clouds of fog and gray had rolled away to reveal a world of color. Touching its soft folds felt like falling into beauty.

"Holmes?" Watson asked, "What do you see?" And abruptly his attention snapped back upon the world, and the scents of food and Watson and Mary's perfume and he blinked and let his fingers fall back to the cold metal of the silverware and coarser touch of a napkin. Watson's hand moved warmly over his as he asked, "Are you hungry?" He realized that he was.

End


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